


Battlefield Ghosts

by BroadwayBaggins



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chain reaction of events brings up traumatic memories for a soldier, and Emma Green is caught in the crossfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlefield Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/gifts).



> For MercuryGray, who has been craving some fic of these two. I hope I do them justice!

He hadn’t seen it happen.

The hospital had been enjoying a rare respite as afternoon fell into evening and dark clouds loomed over Mansion House like a bad omen. There were no boys requiring immediate attention, no sudden influx of soldiers through the doors of the old hotel, no squabbles among the boys or unruly patients disrupting the rare quiet. The staff had been given a rare opportunity to check in on their patients at their leisure, a few of the healing soldiers had started up an impromptu game of cards in the corner (after Matron Brannon had sternly warned them that the moment she saw any gambling under this roof, she would shut down their antics before they had the chance to draw their next card), one boy was reading out loud from a slim, slightly stained volume of Emerson’s poetry, and Henry was happily writing a letter home on behalf of a boy from Michigan who had recently found himself bereft of his right hand. The boy was kind and lighthearted, in good spirits and even cracking jokes with Henry as he wrote, and he was so absorbed in his work that he did not see what events unfolded next until it was far too late.

Later, he would hear of how Miss Green had paused to check on a Union soldier—like Nurse Mary, the young woman was growing more and more comfortable with treating the wounded boys on the other side of the war—who had been staring straight ahead, catatonic, for hours. Nurse Mary would tell him later how Miss Green’s brow had furrowed with concern, how she had placed a hand on the man’s huge arm, thick and muscular from years of hard work, and asked if he was all right. How he had not acknowledged her at all, had looked straight through her as if she were not there at all, his eyes fixated on a battlefield that only he could see, a battlefield that, try as he might , he had not yet been able to leave.

Henry hadn’t seen it. But he had heard the commotion that had led up to it, a horrible sequence of events that could not be stopped. First, a gust of wind had blown the front door shut with a bang, and one of the Sisters had been startled into dropping a tray laden with instruments. And at the same time, from above their heads came a terrible crack of thunder as the storm that had been threatening to break all day finally unleashed its fury upon Alexandria. It sounded as if the storm was right on top of them, rain pounding down onto the roof with a clamor that drowned out almost everything else.

The nun had cried out, as had a few of the men. Miss Green had flinched. And the soldier, still with her hand on his arm, had leapt up as if in some kind of trance.

He had heard Miss Green’s sudden scream cut off abruptly, and when he looked up, all he could see was that huge Union soldier, easily six feet tall, standing with his hands around Emma Green’s throat as he pressed her up against the doorframe. She struggled faintly in his grasp, clearly terrified, and suddenly she looked as helpless as a rag doll in the grip of a man who could surely kill her as soon as stand there.

Sister Isabella had screamed. Anne Hastings had abandoned her young charge and rushed over to Miss Green’s side before stopping short, unsure of what to do, and Nurse Mary had shouted for Doctor Foster to come quickly. The soldier was incoherent, mumbling to himself, his tanned hands standing out against the pale skin of Emma’s neck as he dug his fingers into her soft, vulnerable flesh.

Henry hadn’t realized that he had stood up until he heard the ink bottle he had abandoned smash to the floor. It was as if some other force was propelling him forward, causing him to rush past the rows of beds to Miss Green’s side, and yet it seemed as if he would never make it in time.

“Private!” he heard Nurse Mary cry sharply. Her voice was loud and full of authority, but there was a slight tremor in her voice that betrayed more—fear and anger at the sight before them now as Emma struggled against her captor’s grasp. “Unhand Miss Green at once!”

He did not obey, pressing his thumbs harder against Miss Green’s white throat, making her whimper and choke. Her hands clawed at his, desperate to escape his iron grip. Doctor Foster appeared like magic at Nurse Mary’s side, gripping her forearm in a silent warning. She changed her tone, speaking softly now, as if to a frightened colt. “Private Jacobsen. Please let Miss Green go.”

“Let her go, soldier,” Doctor Foster repeated, holding out his free hand, palm out, to the man. “You’re hurting her.”

“Please,” Emma managed to choke out, her eyes wide with desperation, her creamy complexion slowly turning red and purple form lack of air.

“I’ll kill you,” the man hissed. “I’ll kill you all, swear to God.”

The other men were staring now, watching the scene with horror and fascination, but none of them dared speak a word. Apart from the man’s ravings, Emma’s strangled cries, and the cajoling of Nurse Mary and Doctor Foster, you could have heard a pin drop on the ward. A few of those who were able to do so rose from their beds, but none seemed eager to enter the fray and offer his assistance. There was no telling if becoming involved would help Miss Green or hurt her, or whether the man who offered her his aid would soon find himself on the other end of Private Jacobsen’s chokehold in Emma’s stead.

“Rebel bastards!” he shouted.  His eyes were glassy and unfocused, yet full of a malice that chilled Henry to the bone. His grip loosened for just a second, and Emma thrashed in his arms, desperate to escape. He slammed her back against the doorframe, where her head collided with a crack against the wood. She let out a faint noise that might have been a gasp or a sob. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

“P-please!” Her voice was so weak it was almost inaudible. Henry’s heart thundered painfully against his ribcage. He was only about a foot away from them now, close enough to reach out an arm and pull the man back, if only he dared.

“Private Jacobsen,” Nurse Mary voiced again. “Peter. I need you to let go of Emma. _Now.”_

“I’ll kill you all! Glory for the Republic!”

“Jesus Christ, he thinks he’s still at the front,” Anne Hastings murmured to no one in particular.

“Got my brother, Rebel bastards. I intend to make you pay. Not one Reb is leavin’ here alive…kill you all, fucking swear I will.”

The scene was so horrible that no one even winced at the profanity. As Henry watched, the soldier’s face suddenly twisted from fury into something more sinister, the sadistic smile of a man who knew what he was doing and was enjoying it. The smile of someone who took pleasure in other’s pain, who, even though he may not realize that it was a nurse he was attacking instead of a Confederate soldier, was relishing every minute of the assault. It was the same smile he had seen on Robbie Gale’s face that terrible day when Henry had beaten him in order to avenge his sister, before Henry had gotten the better of him, before blind rage had overcome brute strength and left a boy bigger and broader than he broken and bleeding on the grass. Henry knew that smile. He knew it only too well. He hated that smile.

It was as if he himself were in a trance as he strode forward, reaching his arm out and preparing to yank the man as far away from Emma as he possibly could. “Get your hands _off_ her,” he growled, preparing to strike--

“Reverend,” Doctor Foster voiced, his tone calm but the timbre of his voice deep, almost like a growl himself. His dark eyes flashed a warning at Henry, telling him to stay where he was before he caused any more harm.

“They got my brother,” Jacobsen whispered.

“I know. And I’m sorry. But this will not bring him back. The battle is over, Peter,” Doctor Foster said calmly. “You’re in a hospital. The battlefield is far away. No one here is going to hurt you. You need to let Miss Green go now.”

“Dirty Rebel bastards…” But his voice was faltering, like a child’s whimper, and Henry could see that his grip around Emma’s throat was beginning to lessen.

“Peter. It’s done. Let her go. Let us help you.”

Emma Green sagged to the floor as Jacobsen stepped back and  the pressure against her throat was released, sobbing and gasping for breath in ragged wheezes that made it hard for Henry himself to catch a breath. Misses Hastings and Phinney rushed to catch her, each supporting an elbow to keep her from fainting dead away completely, while Samuel Diggs and Doctor Foster took it upon themselves to set the patient on the floor. He struggled against their grip, but not as a madman might—no, now his huge shoulders shook with heaving sobs that put Henry in mind of a child throwing a temper tantrum. Miss Phinney, upon determining that Miss Green was no longer in danger of fainting dead away, retreated to the doctor’s side, kneeling beside Jacobsen and helping to hold him down as Doctor Foster injected a dose of morphine into the crook of his elbow. He was still thrashing when the drug finally took hold a few seconds later.

“It’s done,” Doctor Foster said gently. “He’ll rest easy now, for a while.”

“Excellent work, everyone.” Henry wasn’t even sure when Doctor Hale had shown up, and for a moment he hated the boisterous doctor for not being there sooner, for not offering his help in saving Emma. “If only I could have gotten here in time, I could have offered my assistance, but I can see you all had it well in hand.”

Miss Green had one hand around her neck, and her breathing was still ragged and uneven. Miss Hastings was rubbing her back soothingly, and Nurse Mary returned to her side as Samuel and another orderly worked to deposit Jacobsen back in his own bed.

“Poor little mite,” Hale crooned. “I do hope she’ll be all right. You know, I did express my concern over one so young as her joining our little band of nurses…”

This time, even Anne Hastings joined them in giving Byron Hale a glare that could have peeled the paint from the walls. He blanched and took a step back.

“Thank you, Hale, for your input,” Foster said stiffly. “Are you also going to object on me using a dose of morphine to sedate a man that was clearly a danger to himself and to others, as poor Miss Green has shown?”

“No,” Hale said softly. “No, I would have done the same thing.” He cleared his throat, raising his voice again. “Nothing else to be done, I’m afraid. A coward, pure and simple, that’s what he is. A disgrace to the uniform. That’s the long and short of it, Foster, cowardice. No imaginary ailments or diseases of the brain here--”

“He did not know where he was!” Foster objected loudly. “He was convinced he was back on the battlefield, miles away—“

“So he is delusional. There are solutions to that. One is sending him right back to the front where he belongs in the hopes that battle will shake the madness from him, the other of course, albeit less desirable, the asylum—“

“Doctor Foster, Doctor Hale, please,” Nurse Mary interrupted before the argument could escalate any further. “I think Miss Green should be examined for any more serious injuries. She’s bound to have at least some bruising, and—“

“I need to check to see if there is any further damage—the larynx, the trachea, even the cervical vertebrae could have been compromised,” Doctor Foster agreed. “Let’s get her somewhere private.”

They quickly ushered her away, leaving Hale to deal with the chaos on the wards. Henry followed behind dumbly, not sure if he was welcome—in fact, something told him that he would not be—but still he found himself standing in the door of the empty operating theatre all the same. Anne Hastings rushed away and returned a few moments later holding a lamp, and together she and Nurse Mary began to carefully unbutton Emma’s collar.

 _Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._ The words of the Catholic confession sprang unbidden into Henry’s mind. No, Henry Hopkins was no Papist and held nothing against those that were, but in his travels he had befriended a Catholic man and had accompanied him to church and confession one day, curious to see how others practiced their faith. He had pronounced it an interesting experiment, and had not thought much of it after that day. But now, with the memory still fresh in his mind of the now-sleeping figure that could have…he closed his eyes, not wanting to think on the possibilities if the doctor and nurses had not gotten there in time.

 _Bless me, Father, for I have sinned._ And sinned he had, for in those brief moments when he had seen the iron grip of those hands around Miss Green’s pale neck, seen her beautiful blue eyes bulging and begging for relief as those huge hands had pressed into her windpipe, cutting off her air, he had felt the same rage he had felt when he was sixteen and that boy had made fun of his sister Prudence. For that brief moment, Mansion House hospital had melted away. He had seen the tears shining in Pru’s grey eyes, seen the look of triumph on Robbie Gale’s face turn into terror as normally mild-mannered Henry Hopkins had suddenly turned on him, the color that his blood had turned the grass there on the shores of the Ohio River. He had felt that same base, animal desire rise up within him—the desire to protect, to hurt, to avenge. He had wanted to tear Private Jacobsen away from Emma Green, wanted to get the man as far away from her as he possibly could, but more than that…he had wanted to punish him for hurting her. He had wanted to hurt him back. Standing there now, he had no doubt that had Doctor Foster not put a stop to it, he could have…he _would_ have…

He suddenly shivered, feeling as if the ghost of Robbie Gale himself had sidled up to him, hundreds of miles from where he’d died.

“God Almighty,” he heard Nurse Mary whisper under her breath, and Henry’s mind returned to the room.

The first few buttons on Emma’s dress had been undone so that Doctor Foster could examine her, and Henry knew that he should look away, that it was no longer appropriate for him to remain and that Miss Green was in good hands, but he found himself rooted to the spot. Already dark bruises, blue and purple and red, were beginning to stand out against her skin, stretching from just below her chin to the hollow of her throat and even some of her clavicle. His shaking hands clenched into fists before he forced them to relax once more at his sides.

“This may hurt a bit,” Doctor Foster said. “Later we can get you something for the pain, but I need to examine the extent of your injuries. Just try to hold still, Miss Green.” Gently, he began to probe the bruises around her neck, soothing her gently when she flinched away. She gripped the hands of the other nurses so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and Henry wished that he could offer his own hand for her to hold, to comfort her in whatever way he could. He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her close and promise that no one would ever touch her in that way again…he wanted to kiss each terrible bruise that marred her skin…

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue…say ‘ah’.”

All that came out was a wisp of air, no sound.

“That’s fine. That’s good. Now close your mouth and try to swallow for me…that’s right. You’re doing great, Miss Green. Just a few more minutes now.”

Finally, he took a step back, folding his hands before him. “You’ve sustained a significant amount of bruising, both internally and externally. Your trachea does not appear to be too badly damaged, but your vocal folds are very delicate and will require some time to heal. If you are able to, try to keep your head and neck elevated while you sleep—extra pillows and blankets should do the trick. The swelling should go down within two or three days, I should say.”

“I’ll fetch you a compress,” Nurse Mary said quickly.

“Something hot would help, too, Mary,” Doctor Foster added in a soft voice. “To soothe the throat. Tea, or coffee if it can be had, or even hot water. And…perhaps some whisky, for the pain. You’re going to have some difficulty swallowing for the next few days, Miss Green, as you heal. Soft foods would help you immensely—soup, porridge, things like that.” She opened her mouth to speak, but whether it was to agree or protest, they would never find out. Although her mouth moved, only a faint croak escaped her throat, and it broke Henry’s heart to hear it. She winced in pain and put a hand to her neck.

“Don’t try to talk,” Doctor Foster ordered, although his tone was kind. “Not for a while. You need to rest your voice so it can heal, just as you would with any other injury. It will take a bit of time, and you must be patient, but I am certain that you will make a full recovery."

“I should return to the wards,” Miss Hastings spoke up. Once again, Henry had all but forgotten she was there. She placed a hand atop Emma’s pale one and squeezed gently. “You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered. “You’ve had a fright, but you’re a strong girl, aren’t you? You’re going to get through this.” With that, she turned and slipped out the door.

“You have indeed been very brave,” Doctor Foster agreed. “These men…some of them have been forever changed by the war, Miss Green. I am truly sorry that you had to bear the brunt of it.” He glanced to the doorway where Henry stood. A look passed between them, and Henry nodded.

“I need to go check on Private Jacobsen. I leave you in Chaplain Hopkins’ capable hands. Nurse Mary should be back any minute with your tea and compresses. Send her down when she’s done, will you?”

Emma nodded, and at the last minute, Doctor Foster reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. She seemed surprised at the contact, but looked up at him with a grateful smile that conveyed all that her voice could not.

“Rest now, Emma,” the doctor said softly, a fondness and sympathy in his voice that the chaplain did not expect to hear. He nodded to Henry and made his way out of the room, and then it was just the two of them.

“Miss Green,” he whispered helplessly. “Oh, Miss Green. I am so sorry.”

Her eyes were full of tears and concern—her, concerned for him! Oh, how he hated himself!—and she opened her mouth to speak, trying valiantly to form words amidst her wheezes and croaks. “No, no, don’t try to talk,” he whispered, rushing to her side. “Please, don’t hurt yourself just for me!”

“You…tried to help me,” she managed to choke out, rubbing her neck once more.

“Of course I did,” he whispered, taking her small hands—roughened from hospital work, but still soft and soothing in his grasp—and squeezing them lightly.  “Of course I did.”

The storm still raged outside, and downstairs on the wards men were still waging their own battles. Just like Henry found himself still haunted by Robbie’s ghost, the boys downstairs faced their own ghosts every day. Some, like Arthur Simpson downstairs who was still waiting for Henry to finish his letter, handled it better than most. And others, others like Peter Jacobsen, being tended to by Doctor Foster one floor down…others allowed their ghosts to win the battle. Others saw their ghosts everywhere, just out of sight, waiting to strike when the time was right, waiting for just the perfect moment to pull them back into a battle they thought they had been leaving behind forever.

Emma Green had her own ghosts now, too. Some days he would catch her looking at the bed that had been Tom Fairfax’s, that now housed a grizzled man from Georgia, and he knew that she was not seeing her new patient but instead her childhood friend. And he knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that no matter what happened Private Peter Jacobsen would now haunt Emma for the rest of her days.

Yes, there were ghosts crawling over every inch of this hospital—ghosts of the hotel that it had once been, ghosts of boys who never got to see another day, ghosts of dreams that were lost and battles that would never end in the minds of the men who had served them. There were ghosts of bullies punished cruelly and ghosts of confused men who had done terrible harm by trying to protect themselves. And yet in spite of it all, the warmth of Emma’s hands in his own gave Henry a certain kind of hope, and he looked up at her, past the sea of bruises mottling her skin and into her china-blue eyes, and never wanted to look away.

There would always be ghosts to fight. Henry just had to hope that they might be strong enough, one day, to finally defeat them.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know a whole lot about PTSD, I will readily admit, and much of what I do know comes from TV. I hope that, despite my lack of knowledge and minimal research, I have portrayed it in a respectful and hopefully accurate manner. I got my information about neck injuries/strangulation from this website: http://www.sw.org/HealthLibrary?page=Soft%20Tissue%20Injury%20of%20the%20Neck and tried to have Jed give his medical advice based on what I learned. I don't know what branch of Protestantism Henry practices (has the fandom decided Lutheran?) but as I am Catholic I couldn't resist a bit of "write what you know" by putting in that little reference! Finally, I don't know how accurate my use of the word "fucking" is in this context, but I figured it has been around a good long while so it made sense to use it.


End file.
